Break with Tears
by Louder Than Words 354
Summary: Mark gave and gave, and all Roger did was take. Now, Mark is about to leave New York for good, and it's up to Roger to give him one last gift...no matter how much it hurts. Mark and Roger friendship. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1: Love's Not a Three Way Street

Chapter One

Roger

"_Love's Not a Three Way Street"_

Roger enlaced Mimi's cold fingers with his. They walked in comfortable silence down the street, crowded with holiday shoppers. They were perfectly content to simply share each others company.

The sun had already set behind the hard silhouettes of the New York skyline, and only a cold, heavy layer of ominous clouds remained. New Yorkers have always been survivors, and they were unperturbed by the cold, or the promise of snow.

As they walked the four blocks back to Mimi's apartment from dinner, Roger felt lost in the mass of humanity, and only the feel of her hand kept his mind from drifting away.

He kissed her on the front step. Passer bys, in normal New York fashion, seemed not to notice them as they shared intimacies in the shadows. She sighed into his embrace, and he tenderly pulled her closer. Their lips touched again before they whispered goodnight and Roger slid back into the crowds.

It was snowing now, a wet, slushy snow that managed to slide under the collar of Roger's leather jacket no matter how high he turned it up. He wished that he was back with Mimi's warm breath against his chest, not alone in the cold.

By the time he reached his own apartment, the snow was coming down thick and he was shivering.

"It's snowing." he informed Mark as he closed the door behind him.

Mark made an indistinct noise of ascent.

He was sitting on one of the two mattresses that they had dragged into the front room. They'd built an impromptu fire to give the illusion of heat; even with the steady blaze that was going Roger was no warmer than he had been outside. He was fingering the frayed edge of one of the blankets and resting his hand against the bridge of his nose.

"You okay?" Roger asked, taking off the old band t-shirt he had worn underneath his jacket that was now soaked from the snow.

Mark didn't answer. He didn't register Roger changing into an old pair of flannel pants and a clinging white t-shirt—something that usually made Mark blush and turn away, commenting on his friend's lack of modesty.

"Mark?"

"Huh?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, just tired."

Roger scowled at Mark's deflection, but realized that he wasn't going to get anything more out of the man when he was in this state. He turned away and tossed another piece of wood onto the fire, when he'd turned back Mark had curled under his blankets and was pretending to be asleep.

"Goodnight, Mark."

Only silence answered.

* * *

Roger couldn't sleep.

He tossed and turned trying to find the one comfortable position on the old mattress. He was sweating under the many layers of blankets, even though the room was freezing.

Glancing at the clock, he discovered that it had only been three minutes since he'd last looked at it. 2:38. Roger sighed and climbed out of bed. He'd been lying down for too long and his restlessness had made his muscles ache.

Mark was breathing softly a few feet away. Roger glanced over at him jealously. He envied the other man's sojourn into dreams. Mark looked so innocent and child-like as he slept. The urge to reach out and brush a lock of hair from his forehead, nearly consumed Roger. He wondered what had worried Mark so desperately earlier, what had made him so distant and silent.

Apart from the words they had exchanged when he'd come home, Roger couldn't even call it a conversation; he couldn't recall the last time he'd spoken to Mark. Somehow, their schedules had kept them out of each other's way for the past several days. Before that, he thought their last conversation had been an argument about which one of them had finished off the box of Captain Crunch.

The fire was beginning to burn out. Though Roger was still sweating, he saw how Mark seemed to cuddle into the warmth of his blankets; he threw more wood onto the fire.

He went to look out the window. On nights like this, Roger hated New York. It was too bright, too noisy, too much a reminder that an entire city was not bothered by their lack of sleep. Amidst the normal yellow haze of New York lights, red and green Christmas lights flashed, all blending together in a nauseating hue.

Since having moved to New York, Roger had come to hate Christmas. Not only was it a constant reminder of the fact that he and Mark were financially barely scraping by, but also his own inability to enjoy the cheap, commercialized feel that Christmas in New York had.

Mark's breathing fell out of rhythm for a moment as he rolled over. Roger turned around, half-hoping Mark would wake up; he was tired of being alone.

Mark didn't wake.

Turning his attention back out the window, it occurred to Roger, that he couldn't remember what he'd bought Mark last year for Christmas… had he bought him anything at all?!

How strange.

He distinctly remembered receiving gifts from Mark. Last year, it had been new strings for his guitar; the year before that, a scarf that was more Mark's style than his, but that Roger had worn anyway.

Why hadn't Mark ever mentioned this? Roger frowned to think that Mark was some patient saint who had waited for his friend to remember him every Christmas and had accepted the disappointment with quiet dignity.

He'd have to buy him something nice this year. Tiptoeing across the room, he found his wallet on the coffee table.

It contained three dollars.

Angrily, Roger threw it back down on the table. He remembered that his last twenty dollars had gone as co-pay on his AZT. He mouthed every swear word he could think of.

Surely Mark had already purchased a gift for him. Sinking down on his mattress he stared at the other man in the darkness.

What kind of friend had he ever been to Mark?

Mark had suffered through countless nights when Roger had been withdrawing. It had been Mark who had talked him through those moments where the pain had been so intense that he was sure he would die. Mark, who had patiently accepted the words—and sometimes blows—Roger had rained down upon him during those nights. Mark had found April. Mark had held Roger as he sobbed, heavy tears, not only for April, but for himself as well. Mark had waited while Roger ran away to Santa Fe in some attempt to escape his own guilt, and then taken him back without question.

And Mark had never asked for anything in return. This had always been a one-way street. Mark gave and gave and gave, and all Roger did was take.

Roger watched him sleep. Mark's lovable, dorky nature seemed lost now. Roger saw only one thing: a man who gave love away and never seemed to receive it in return.

He turned away from the glow of the New York lights and curled onto his side under the blankets. This Christmas, Roger would find a way to give Mark that thing he had failed to truly provide to his best friend: love.

Roger fell asleep smiling.


	2. Chapter 2: The Witness

Chapter 2

Mark

"The Witness"

Mark had slept wonderfully that night.

It was surprising, actually, considering everything on his mind. He descended to the kitchen in the morning determined to clear his thoughts, to free himself from horrible choices and fragments of memories. A familiar blank slate filled him. For a moment, he was content—until he realized there was nothing for breakfast.

Subconsciously, Mark reached for his camera. It had accompanied him down the stairs; it always did, even in the morning. The weight around his neck seemed natural. Smiling, he switched it on to record. His emotions filtered through the lens so that he was left with only the feel of the camera in his hands.

"December 7th, 8:42 A.M. A snapshot of the coveted Bohemian lifestyle. First, we close in on the barren wasteland of the refrigerator; now we zoom in on the lonely shelves of the pantry. And yet, what is this?" He focused on the pile of dirty dishes that cluttered the sink and spilled over the rim, extending onto the countertop. "A full sink. We've reached a new level of pathetic."

Hearing a yawn and a set of lazy footsteps coming down the steps, Mark whirled around, still recording. "Speaking of pathetic! A rare appearance by the all-time king!" He obnoxiously strode over and dogged Roger's steps, keeping the camera a few inches away from the songwriter's face.

This resulted in an exaggerated groan and a close-up of Roger's hand. "Dammit, Mark, first thing in the morning? Turn it off, I look like shit."

Mark laughed and shut the camera off. "Oh, I forgot. I'm only allowed to photograph you when you look like a Vogue model."

Roger grunted. He started towards the kitchen, but gave up halfway and fell onto the couch instead. "We don't have anything to eat, do we?"

"Human flesh."

"Where? There's none on your scrawny excuse for a body."

Mark chose to ignore the comment and flopped unceremoniously on the couch beside Roger. For a few moments, they lay there uselessly. Each had his own thoughts to be lost in. The smile drifted from Mark's face as reality set in again.

"You look awful," he said to Roger. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Yeah."

"How did dinner go with Mimi?"

"Great, really great."

Ok. Roger wasn't in a mood to talk. It didn't surprise Mark—they didn't talk as much as they used to. The silence that fell now was more awkward than comfortable.

Mark was aware of the side-glances Roger was giving him; something was obviously troubling Roger just below the surface. Mark waited for his friend to articulate the problem. It wouldn't take long—Roger couldn't keep things bottled up for more than a few minutes, not when he had Mark to talk to.

When the issue came up, it wasn't what Mark expected.

"What was bothering you so much last night?"

Mark froze for a moment. He wasn't ready to mention this yet…he didn't know how to say it so that Roger would understand. And yet, he knew he couldn't keep quiet. He also couldn't meet Roger's eyes.

"Nothing really…I was just really tired; you got in kind of late and I'd been drifting off. I don't even remember our conversation."

Roger laughed acridly. "It wasn't a conversation."

"See? Maybe that's why I don't remember it."

"It was you avoiding a conversation."

Roger was standing now, towering over Mark with a torn expression of hurt and disgust. Mark stood to match his stare. They were standing close with a gulf of distrust between them.

"It was me trying to hold onto enough consciousness to _have _a conversation." Mark said. _So drop it, Roger. It's none of your business—not yet. _

For several seconds, they said nothing. They didn't break eye contact. Then, Roger was the first to turn away with a disinterested shrug.

"Whatever you say, Mark."

Sighing, Mark checked the time—just after nine. He had to leave around 9:30.

"I've got to go get ready," he murmured awkwardly, making his way around the labyrinth of trash, empty cans, and crumpled sheet music full of musical etchings.

"Where are you going?" Roger asked.

Mark didn't bother to turn around as he started going back up the steps. "You're not the only one with dates. I've got an interview."

"How is that a date?"

Mark stopped walking. He couldn't help smiling; some of the tension had eased. Pivoting slightly, he looked back down at Roger, who offered a small, apologetic grin.

"It's me and my camera—how is that _not _a date?"

For some reason, Roger turned away. He didn't seem to find Mark's answer very funny.

* * *

He couldn't continue living vicariously through people who were dying.

What was he going to do? Continue to be a witness until the lives he leeched off of were gone? They were all living for each day, enjoying the life they had. But Roger couldn't keep surviving off of bits and pieces. Mark could see that soon, the day would come when Roger wouldn't be able to pay for his AZT; he would suddenly be one step closer to the end. The day might come when he'd be out on the street—when they all would. The new landlord expected them to pay rent. If Mark and Roger were evicted, they could only stay with Mimi, or Maureen and Joanne, or Collins for so long. They were all barely getting by. Only Collins had found a steady job, but he wouldn't be able to support all of them if they fell.

The papers in Mark's hands were the answer.

He had thought about it for countless nights. Now, the time had come to decide, and Mark felt that he had made the best choice. It had been hard to keep the secret from Roger. It had involved filing away the contracts, the information pamphlets, the job descriptions, resumes, and videotapes. For better or for worse, it had worked.

* * *

And now Mark had his last interview before accepting the job.

No day but today. With any luck, Mark would be able to help his friends hold to that for a few more years.

He looked himself over in the mirror a few more times, making sure he looked professional before going back downstairs. Familiar strummed guitar notes drifted up to greet him.

He found Roger sitting by the window, looking out at the austere morning cloaked by civilization.

"It's snowing again," Roger mused.

Mark went to stand beside his friend, sharing the view of the dreary cityscape. "Yeah." Subconsciously, he wrapped a scarf around his neck. "I've got a few dollars, I can bring back something to eat. The interview shouldn't take long."

Roger looked up suspiciously. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You never told me about an interview."

"I've had several over the past week, Rog. This is just the first time you've been here to see me leave."

Mark saw momentary pain flash in Roger's eyes. The filmmaker looked away, confused; that comment wasn't meant to be hurtful. It was just the truth.

He checked the time again—9:32. Good. He wasn't going to be late.

"I've gotta head out," Mark said, checking over his camera bag to make sure he had everything he needed. "Don't starve while I'm gone."

"I'll walk you to the door."

"Thanks. I get lost sometimes."

Roger laughed halfheartedly. They walked in silence to the door. By the time they reached it, Mark was glad to be leaving; Roger's heavy voice and shuffling footsteps disheartened him. This wasn't going to be easy.

"See ya."

As Mark entered the light snowfall, he left Roger's body in the doorframe. Roger hadn't returned the goodbye. However, the songwriter's voice soon emerged through the thickness of the air.

"You know, just because it's been different lately doesn't mean we should be any different with each other."

Mark turned back and met Roger's eyes. The cold was starting to penetrate him; his face flushed and his breath was visible in rhythmic white puffs. "I know, Rog," he said, shivering.

The icy bitterness didn't seem to affect Roger, who leaned casually in the doorway. "Yeah, so…you can always tell me what's bothering you or whatever. I know you don't really like to talk about your problems, but I'm gonna find out anyway."

Mark sighed. _This isn't a good time, Rog. Then again…it's never going to be a good time. _

He walked back towards the door, stopping a few feet away. "So…it's not really a _problem, _I guess. It's just a big decision."

"About what?"

"Well…"

_Just spit it out. _

"Ok. So I've been doing all these interviews for the past week. It wasn't really a sure thing; I just wanted to see if I had a shot. And, um…it's for this independent film company that just formed, a coalition between other independent companies that had been sort of successful. So they had a pretty big initial budget since all of the studios came together and they wanted to hire a director to shoot some pilot films, documentaries and stuff. They want the films to be creative—it's not like they give you something you _have _to film, no matter how lame it is."

Roger nodded, looking more than a little confused. "So, you tried for this, and…that's a bad thing?"

"No! I mean, not really. It's just that all of a sudden it seems like a big possibility. They saw some of last year's footage and basically said that I'm the guy they're looking for. They'd pay a good amount and I'd get to do exactly what I've always wanted to do. It's my big chance, you know? Things like this don't really come up a lot for a filmmaker, especially one who's never gotten his feet off the ground."

"But Mark…I mean, that's awesome, man! I'd give anything for a chance like that with music! Why would that bother you? Man, Mark, that's…that's incredible. Someone's finally realized how ridiculously good you are!"

Suddenly, Mark didn't really feel the cold—only the weight of the moment. This was the hard part.

"Yeah, but…there's a catch."

Roger sighed. "Look, if you're worried about the fact that you'll have to throw yourself into your work again or whatever, it's cool. You'll actually like it this time. There's nothing to worry about."

"They're based in D.C., Roger. I'll have to leave New York."

Mark couldn't face his best friend anymore. He walked away without a look back and left Roger gaping at the cold city visage, blurred as the snow continued to fall.


	3. Chapter 3: Glory on Another Empty Life

Chapter 3

"_Glory--on another empty life"_

Roger wasn't sure how long he stood in the snow. Mark had been caught up in the stream of civilization, lost to Roger's sight in the dark water of coats and the white rapids of falling snow. Roger remained frozen in place; people slid around him as water around a rock, completely unimpeded by his presence.

Mark had been the only constant in his ever shifting life. Without Mark, Roger knew that he would die alone in New York City… without Mark; he would've died alone in New York City years ago.

* * *

_Flashback

* * *

_

Roger clutched his guitar close to his side as he emerged from the subway. Snow clung to his eyelashes making him blink. It was too warm for the snow to stick, so that not even a blanket of whiteness could cover the dirty, unfriendly facades of the buildings. It was hanging in that awkward moment between day and night, where the sun's light and the light from the neon signs were as one.

Roger remembered sending off yet another post card to his mother from another back room in another bar. The last one had been sent from Baltimore, before that Boston, before that Providence, before that…he couldn't really remember. All those smoke filled rooms looked the same in retrospect. He'd told his mother that he and his band had a big contract waiting for them in New York.

He'd lied.

It wasn't the first of such lies he'd told his mother so that she could find comfort.

The members of The Four Horsemen, a reference to the four horsemen of the apocalypse, had been living in New York for three months now. Getting by the way they always did, playing in an endless string of rough bars.

Jordan, his drummer, climbed up the stairs behind him. "What a shit-hole!" He said, lighting up a cigarette so quickly it was clear the twenty minutes on the subway had nearly killed him.

Roger shrugged off the other man's comments; to him, it was flawless. Exactly the way it should be. Roger was in love with New York. He smiled and shrugged his backpack, containing all of his possessions, further up on his shoulder. "It's perfect."

"Perfect?" Chris laughed. "Roger, I thought we agreed that you would only shoot up after the show was over."

Roger punched his bassist on the shoulder. The punch was a little harder than was probably necessary and it knocked Chris off balance. Chris's eyes flashed; if his hands hadn't been filled with his own bass guitar and duffle bag, he would've punched Roger back.

Mat, the band's all around handy man who played whatever needed playing, most often a second guitar--had finally emerged from the subway. He was built like a wrestler, and had probably never said more than two words to Roger the entire time the band had been together.

The four of them weren't what Roger would've described as friends. There was always this thick layer of underlying tension that was hidden just below the surface, but that came out in their music.

They had been playing the same bar for almost two months now. The pay was shit, but it was the only steady gig they'd found in the entire city.

Roger knew the others blamed him for it. He'd been the one who'd suggested New York. The one who had insisted that if there was money to be made, they would make it here. The one who had said that record deals would be thrown at their feet.

He'd lied.

They'd been making twice as much in Baltimore.

The four of them silently moved down the street towards a back alley. A steel door was set into the wall. It was both the front and the back door. There was a bullet hole at Roger's eyelevel. The owner called it ambiance; Roger had other words for it.

The bar was mostly empty; the rush wouldn't start for a few hours yet. But already Roger saw Mike, his dealer, drinking vodka straight from the bottle as he sat at the bar. He was already too far gone to recognize Roger. The owner, a man who went only by JB and who seemed to have more tattoos than skin, glanced up at them

"Kid." JB refused to call Roger by his real name. He insisted that Roger's boyish features made him look nine and that he sang like he was nine. Roger had more than once argued that if JB thought that he could just throw them off the payroll.

"What?" Roger placed his guitar down on the bar while the other three men stepped into the back room.

"You're gone. After tonight."

"What?" Roger spat.

"You're gone. After tonight."

"What the hell are you doing?!" Roger growled, his voice dropping an octave. "You can't throw us out of here." He stepped back to let JB know that he was fingering the butterfly knife that he kept in his pocket.

"Don't threaten me, kid. You, Jordan, Mat, Chris, you're out of here, tonight. The pay for the month won't be waiting for you."

"What the—"

"I know you've been screwing me, Roger." He'd lifted Roger clear off his feet by the collar of his jacket and was now holding him over the bar. "Get out of here tonight. And if I ever see your god damn face around here again, I swear, those pretty little hands ain't gonna be playing nothing no more. Not when I know they've been reaching into my till. Got it?" He threw Roger back down.

Roger felt anger rising in his chest.

His fist connected with JB's nose. The other man was over the bar so quickly that Roger didn't even have time to move. He felt the wall connect with his back and felt a hand against his neck.

"I told you not to fuck with me, kid!"

Roger reached for his knife, but his fingers weren't working properly as the corners of his vision went dark.

"What the—" Jordan had come out of the back room.

"Your friend thinks he can screw with me." JB's nose was bleeding and Roger was conscious of the blood spilling onto his leather jacket. "You're all out now!" He let Roger go and the young rocker slipped to the floor, unable to even breathe.

Roger saw Jordan's eyes flash. Jordan knew what had happened.

The floor was cool under Roger's cheek and he felt unconsciousness like a high surrounding him.

"Get up." Jordan growled.

Roger forced himself to stand.

Jordan grabbed his arm and yanked him into the ally.

The cool night air filled Roger's lungs and the cold brought him around to consciousness. "Thanks," he mumbled to Jordan, but the words were hardly out of his mouth when a fist connected with his jaw.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Jordan spat, as Roger stumbled away. "Your goddamn addiction just got us thrown back on the streets!"

Roger was only an inch shorter than Jordan, but the other man was built like a bulldog, all muscle. He threw Roger against the wall.

Roger felt his skull crack against the bricks. There was blood trickling down the back of his coat along with the snow.

He stuck out blindly at Jordan, but his vision was clouding.

"You brought us here." The drummer threw him against the wall again and this time he fell to the ground. "We're not making enough money to even get by!" He kicked Roger hard. Something cracked.

Roger was going under now, slipping away into sweet oblivion and Jordan's growl was only a whisper. The only thing keeping him from the sweet pleasure of drowning was the pain as Jordan kicked him again and again.

Finally, it stopped. Roger didn't remember Jordan leaving, but he was suddenly aware that the blows were no longer falling. It was darker now and he was too cold to even shiver. Snow had coated his clothing and he wondered how long he had been lying there.

He coughed and his mouth filled with blood.

He was in too much pain now to pass out again. His head was killing him and his back ached. But all this paled in comparison to the fire in his chest. He couldn't inhale or even move.

He was going to die here.

He knew that the sticky substance under his face was his own blood.

"December 9th, 1:00 a.m., walking home alone in New York City for the hundredth time. Forty-five dollars in my pocket means I get to eat for another few days. Unless Maureen takes my money to give it to some damn charity again."

Roger thought the other voice a hallucination. The man's narration didn't make much sense. Roger heard footsteps coming up the ally. He started praying it was a hallucination. The last thing he needed right now was one of New York's abundant crazy men finding him. The ally was dark and he hoped that the man would simply not notice him.

"Mom's probably left seven more voice mails, still screaming 'cause I dropped out. I'm sick of looking for meaning in anyone else's ideas. She doesn't get that. From here on in…"

Roger felt a foot connect sharply with his side. He tried to bite back his cry, but couldn't as the dark figure landed on top of him. Something clattered away in the darkness.

"Shit!" The same voice he had hoped was a hallucination squeaked as a very real man scrambled off him. "Are you alright?"

Roger moaned in pain. "Fine." He just wanted the other man to leave him alone.

"What the hell happened here?"

"Nothing." Roger clutched his side. This idiot should just leave and stop asking questions, it hurt to talk.

The other man was pointing something in his face now. "Close on—what's your name?"

"Roger Davis."

"Mark Cohen," the other man replied fiddling with some buttons on the other side of what Roger had finally determined to be a camera. "Close on Roger Davis, the drunk I tripped over in an ally…HOLY SHIT MAN!"

Mark had apparently finally found the night vision button on his camera. Through the lens he could see Roger's pale face in sharp relief —tinted green not only because of the camera light—and the blood that matted his hair. Mark scrambled backward, nearly dropping his camera a second time.

"I'm not drunk," Roger gasped, trying to push himself up to a sitting position against the wall. "I just nearly got killed, by a guy who was supposed to be watching my back."

Mark didn't say a word. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. How dorky was this guy, carrying around both a camera and a handkerchief? But Roger was in too much pain to turn down the man's help as the dried blood was gently brushed away from his cheek. "Come here." Mark said as he wrapped an arm around Roger's shoulders.

Roger tried to protest weakly. He could tell that the other man's boyish figure wasn't going to be able to support his weight.

"My two roommates are out at Boston College for an interview and my girlfriend loves abused things. It's why she keeps me around. For her, you'd be a dream come true. Nobody'll mind if you stay with us at least for a couple days. Sides the place is just around the corner and you can't stay here in the snow."

Roger really wasn't sure what this Mark character was babbling about and he really didn't care.

He was passing out again.

* * *

The next thing Roger was conscious of was being warm and he felt the strong presence of painkillers in his system. A woman was leaning over him, gently tucking the loose end of a bandage back where it belonged. 

He tried to jump up, but couldn't get his muscles to move that far before realizing that the painkillers weren't enough to dull the pain of broken ribs.

"Hey! Hey! Honey! Slow down, babe! You're okay. I'm Maureen. My boyfriend Mark brought you in. Didn't think you'd want him changing your bandages. You're safe. Kay?" She winked at him.

Roger closed his eyes again. He drifted back to sleep amidst the cushion of voices.

"How's he doing?"

"Fine, pookie. He's got me looking after him."

"I knew you wouldn't mind."

"Of course not. Shh. He'll stay asleep for a while longer."

* * *

_End Flashback

* * *

_

Roger found the vodka under his bed in a shoebox. He'd been saving it for Christmas.

He didn't give a damn about Christmas now. He just wanted to feel something. Anything.

He sat on Mark's mattress and could still smell the distinctive Mark smell that hung about the sheets.

He opened the bottle. He wanted to be so drunk that he would forget that smell forever. Forget everything about Mark forever.

So he swallowed down every memory, every thought, and every ache until the bottle ran dry.


	4. Chapter 4: No Absolutes

Chapter 4

Mark

"No Absolutes"

"Welcome to the team, Mr. Cohen. We look forward to working with you."

Tina Connell, the company's representative, smiled in the amiable way that had put Mark at ease through all of their interviews. She filed away the contract. He shook her hand, trying his hardest to smile back sincerely.

It was official now. Mark felt only numbness; he drifted in the gray area between accomplishment and guilt. Part of him kept saying that he could back out at any time, that the decision wasn't official until he flew to D.C. without enough money to fly back. Another part, however, said that there wasn't anything wrong with his decision—it was _his _decision to make, even though taking care of his friends was a big factor. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"Are you all right, Mr. Cohen?"

The silence had become awkward—Tina had expected Mark to leave after signing, but instead he was sitting there, lost in thought. He shook himself out of the daze and stood hurriedly.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Connell", he said. "I just spaced out for a second. I'll see you in a few weeks."

"You should get the plane ticket in the mail by Friday."

"Thank you."

She walked him to the door of the Hyatt conference room. When the door was open, he emerged into the carpeted luxury of the entrance hall, lined quaintly with paintings and lit warmly. The lobby was decorated for the holidays. Maybe it was his lack of five-star-hotel experience, but everything seemed bathed in gold; everything emitted a welcoming, elegant glow, from the chandeliers to the Christmas wreaths.

Mark lingered. Before he knew it, his world had filtered into the round frame of the camera lens, and he was recording.

"December 7th, 11:02 A.M. Is this the world I'm going to be a part of? Is this the world I _want _to be a part of? "

For once, he couldn't think of anything else to say; he couldn't find a point of focus to close in on. He was at once enticed by the luxury and artistically constrained by it.

The camera passed by the unhappy gaze of a large security guard. Biting his lip, Mark lowered it and gave the officer an awkward wave. Then, he walked quickly out of the hotel. Lavishness and warmth gave way to cold, crowded streets.

As usual, everything surrounding Mark was full to capacity, with car horns and voices rising in a maddening tumult beneath the familiar shadows of skyscrapers. He wondered if he would miss the crowd—D.C. was a big city, but the type of crowding was different. Everything would be different. There was no place in the world quite like New York City.

* * *

Mark barely remembered to buy something to eat before going home. The winter cold remained on his cheeks and ears as he closed the door to the apartment behind him; his camera was freezing to touch. Only the pizza box in his hands provided any heat. 

"Roger?"

His voice was greeted by silence. Mark sighed; Roger had probably stormed out or something, reacting to his best friend's upcoming departure by going to rant to his girlfriend. Mark figured it was better that way. He wasn't sure what he would say to Roger, and at least it was a reassurance of the fact that Roger wouldn't be alone once Mark left. Mimi would be there; if not, someone else would. Nothing really depended on Mark's presence at all.

He took a slice of pizza out of the box and stuck the rest on an empty refrigerator shelf. He had almost reached the couch and television remote when he heard the crash of glass from up in the bedroom, followed by heavy, inconsistent footsteps.

Mark paused, confused by the fact that he wasn't alone, that Roger was shuffling around in the bedroom. He dropped the remainder of his pizza on the coffee table. "Roger?" he called, walking slowly up the stairs.

There was no answer—just more stumbling, and this time the distinctive creak of Mark's mattress against the bedsprings.

When he opened the door, Mark found only ruination.

Roger sat on the edge of the bed, his head down. Shards of glass lay scattered at the songwriter's feet—the broken notes of a life. The acrid smell of vodka was stale and dormant in the air. A small, liquid stain was splattered on the wall where the obviously near-empty bottle had made contact and shattered.

_Holy shit, _thought Mark. _He's drunk off his ass. He downed the whole bottle. _

He would have to be careful. When drunk, Roger could be one of two things: hilariously disoriented or instable and dangerous. From the darkness that shadowed Roger's eyes, Mark could only guess that today, it would be the latter of the two. He considered yelling as anger mounted within him, but instead opted for the persuasive approach. Maybe he could bring Roger back to some semblance of reality.

Mark tried to be calm and casual, slowly taking his camera from his neck and laying it on the table by the door. He started walking forward.

"Roger," he softly.

"Couldn't wait til I was dead, could you?"

The words were slurred, spoken down at the floor. Mark barely caught what Roger had said. When the words did register, however, they made Mark go cold and halted his calculated footsteps. "What?"

Roger laughed. The sound was harsh and unwelcome. "Gotta move on with your life, leave your shit behind, leave your friends to die alone…"

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," said Mark. He didn't care if Roger was drunk—those words pierced him. "I don't think you should be lecturing me on valuing life when you could've just drunk yourself to death!"

He couldn't stop the anger now. It was coloring his vision, a blood-tinted plane of rage. At that moment, Mark hated Roger—hated all of Roger's stupid mistakes, hated the disease that was taking Roger away, hated the drunkenness that was making Roger's words hurt so much. Mark took a few quick strides to the bed and closed the gap between them. Roger raised bloodshot eyes, swaying a little where he sat.

"Why do you think I don't talk to you?" asked Mark, his voice rising. "Why are you always trying to get me to open up when you react like _this, _you irresponsible asshole?! I tell you something for the first time and you—"

"Shut up."

"—go and get so fucking drunk that—"

"_Shut up." _

"—you don't even know what the hell you're doing, you don't even know—"

_"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" _

Roger tried to stand. His legs gave way the moment he got up, and he had to grope at the bed clumsily as he fought to find some strength. Mark knew the feeling. The world was spinning, no straight lines existed, and your limbs didn't obey function or obey. Everything flew into detachment that could be both exhilarating and horrifying. Mark knew—but he made no move to help. He fought down the subconscious urge to reach out and steady his best friend.

"How could you be so selfish?" asked Roger, falling into a few side steps until he was leaning against the wall. "So selfish, like you don't give a damn…no one gives a damn..." His words trailed off as he slumped to the ground, unable to support himself any longer. "I smell pizza…" he mumbled.

Mark shook his head in disgust. "You think I'm selfish? Who's the one whose drug addiction nearly cost him his friends, his life, his future? Who's the one who had to go and have sex with a girlfriend who was a whore and a junkie, something that _did _cost him his life?!?"

A dangerous pause followed.

"You take all that back," said Roger in a low, muffled voice. His wild eyes were murderous.

"Why should I? It's not like you can."

"Take it back or I'll beat the shit out of you…"

"Oh, now I'm scared. I'm going to get beaten by a drunk who can't even walk two feet."

Roger tried to stand again, this time bracing his weight against the wall. "I mean it…I'm gonna park you, Munk…"

Mark paused, stupefied. Insults and retorts dangled on the tip of his tongue. "Wait…_what?" _

"Gonna punch you, Mark."

"Oh." Regaining his anger, Mark purposely took a few steps towards his indisposed friend. "Go ahead. I want to see you try. Give it your best shot, hit me until I can't see your goddamn drunken face or—"

The fist came out of nowhere, all of Roger's force behind it.

Mark distantly felt it connect with the side of his face. He tasted the blood as it filled his mouth and spilled onto his chin; he saw the floor rising up to the right as his hands flew instinctively to his face.

For a moment, nothing happened. They were suspended in silence, in a void where everything reeked of alcohol and blood and where the only sound was Roger's panting breath. Mark pushed himself to his knees. He could practically feel the bruise forming on the side of his face; it had caught the outer corner of his eye and covered the upper half of his cheek. The initial shock was ebbing away as the pain settled in.

Mark knelt there for a moment, wondering why it hurt so much this time. He had been mugged aggressively, even brutally, and been bullied sometimes as a kid. Roger had even hit him before while going through withdrawal.

Somehow, it was different this time.

As Mark turned to glance at Roger, their eyes locked. There were apologies in both sets of stares, but stores of indignation, hurt, and fury marred them. Roger was leaning with his back against the wall, looking drunk and pathetic; looking like someone lost in the midst of decay.

There was nothing left here. Mark stood slowly, pain throbbing in the left side of his face, and crossed over to the doorway. Roger's labored breaths remained the only audible break in the stillness.

Mark picked up his camera on the way out. Normally, he would have filmed something as he left, even if it was just the sunlight peering in through the window or Roger sleeping in a morning tangle of bed sheets and dirty clothes. This time, however, the camera stayed off. This incident was one Mark preferred to bury in memory.

_Merry Christmas, Roger. Thanks for giving me another damn scar I didn't need. _

He turned and started down the stairs.

"Mark…"

_Don't look back. _

"Mark, wait, come back…I'm sorry, man…Mark! Please! Please come back!"

_Not this time. _

He was halfway down the stairs, walking briskly. Maybe it wasn't smart to go out like this; the bruise might as well have been a flashing signal, labeling him as an easy target. But at the moment, Mark didn't care. He just didn't want to be here. He wanted to be as far away from home as possible. It was a familiar feeling…he just never thought he'd feel that way about _this _home, about _this _family. He hadn't needed to run away from Roger before.

"Mark! I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!"

_Go to_ _hell. _

"Shit…Mark, come back…"

He was near the door. It was going to be viciously cold outside, so Mark wrapped the scarf tighter around his neck, burying his face down in the fabric to keep the bruise somewhat hidden. He opened the door and was welcomed into the world by a blast of freezing air, accompanied by swiftly falling snowflakes.

"_Mark! MARK!" _

Mark closed the door on the hoarse, drunken yells. His face began to sting, enflamed by the touch of the bitter air.

As he began to walk down the sidewalk, he was barely aware of the footsteps approaching behind him.

"Hey! What's the deal, man? You're leaving just as I get here!"

_Shit._

Collins was coming over today. Actually, Collins came over most days around mid-afternoon, since he mainly worked mornings. He had been the one to keep Mark company during Roger's frequent absences.

Mark paused. He didn't turn around; maybe, with any luck, Collins would back off and he wouldn't have to. "Hey, Collins."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know."

That did it. Mark couldn't keep a slight tremor from leaking into his voice.

Collins let a daunting silence fall. Slowly, he walked over to Mark's back and put a gentle hand onto the filmmaker's shoulder. Mark didn't resist as Collins turned him. He had become numb to everything. It was almost surprising to see love and concern in the compassionate darkness of Collins's eyes; Roger's eyes had been just the opposite, and they were burned into Mark's memory.

The color drained from Collins's face. "Holy shit, Mark…"

Mark put a hand on Collins's shoulder, offering a small smile. "Make sure he doesn't hurt himself, ok?"

He shifted away from Collins's hand and walked off into the haze of snow.


	5. Chapter 5: When You're Dying in America

Chapter Five

"_And when you're dying in America, _

_at the end of the millennium, you're not alone"_

Roger

Roger let out a string of curses that brought Collins in from the other room at a dead sprint.

"Roger?" Collins asked.

"Too loud!" Roger hissed between clenched teeth as he clutched his head. He was holding the doorframe as though it was the only thing keeping him vertical. He was as ashen as the heavy, winter clouds that still covered the sky outside. Luckily, those same clouds blocked the sun; otherwise, the light would've been torture for Roger.

Collins chuckled softly and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Roger to make his own way across the room. The pretty boy front-man fell onto the couch with a pitiful moan. "Collins, I'm dying. Have you no pity?"

A bottle of aspirin flew out of the other room and struck Roger in the face; he whimpered in pain.

"And whose fault is that?"

"The Russians, I think," replied Roger, swallowing more of the little white tablets than was advisable. "They're the ones who invented vodka. Well, and you."

"I invented vodka?"

"No, it's your fault. I was drinking to celebrate you getting back, wasn't I? I don't remember."

"Here." Collins's jovial attitude was suddenly gone as he handed Roger a steaming mug of coffee.

"You're a god!" Roger said, taking the mug. "Ah!" He dropped the mug onto the back of the couch where it toppled dangerously, almost spilling until Collins picked it up.

"Hot?" Collins asked, checking the temperature of the mug as if it could've changed in the two seconds it had been out of his hands.

"No, my hand." Roger cradled it gently against his chest. "What happened?" He flexed it carefully, flinching in pain.

"You punched Mark," Collins replied coolly.

"What?!" Roger whirled around, shooting a glare at Collins so severe that it seemed he was accusing the other man of having punched his best friend.

"You punched Mark. I saw him on his way out. You were in a right state by the time I reached you. I can't imagine what you must've been like when he was here. You kept yelling something about abandonment and about Mark being a self-centered-son-of-a-bitch-who-didn't-give-a—"

"OKAY!" Roger didn't want to hear what Collins had to say. "Where did he go?"

Collins shrugged. "He didn't say."

"And you didn't ask?!" Roger shouted, and then immediately regretted raising his voice above… well, silence…

Collins flashed Roger the dirtiest look he was capable of, one that clearly said "Don't take your anger out on me"

Roger grabbed his coat and stood, brashly planning to go after Mark. But the sudden movement made bolts of lightning-hot pain shoot through his head. The sharpness and suddenness of it almost made him pass out.

"Whoa there, boy!" Collins's hands were on his shoulders, easily lifting him back onto the couch. "You're in no state to go anywhere."

"Neither is Mark."

"Mark's a big boy, he can take care of himself for one night." Even though Roger was resisting with all his strength, Collins kept him easily pinned to the couch with one arm. "Just let him go."

Roger's thoughts were thick and sluggish; heavy, as if covered in a layer of fog. But Collins's words resounded around in his head like police sirens on a clear morning.

_Just let him go._

Mark had come into Roger's life of his own volition. He was going to walk out the same way. It had always haunted Roger that Mark would be the one to survive. Mark would be the one to bury Roger. And now Mark had a chance to escape this fate, why was Roger so resentful?

This damn disease in his blood, this writ of execution that he carried around in his very body was the thing that kept him from true friendship with Mark.

_No…_

_That's not fair…_

Roger had spent a too long defining himself by four little letters—AIDS. He couldn't say that this disease was the only thing that separated them. Roger _chose_ to keep Mark at arm's length. Mark took one step forward; Roger took one step back. It was some sort of sick, twisted waltz that brought them round in dizzying circles, waiting for one of them to lose the precarious balance.

It was he who was the selfish, self-centered moron. Every word he had ever shouted at Mark in anger should've been directed at him. All this guilt was pent up inside, all he should have been the victim all along.

Not Mark.

_Just let him go._

The only thing Roger could possibly give Mark for Christmas that would come close to expressing his remorse and gratitude was one thing: freedom.

This was Mark's chance. Mark's chance to live. Was it truly the place of a condemned man to say who could and could not live?

_Just let him go._

Mark came home late that night. The soft click of the door hailed his entrance in the absence of light and sound. Roger was still a shadow extending from the couch; he hadn't moved. He saw Mark's silhouette against the pale clarity behind the window and watched for a moment, searching for words. There were none.

"Mark!" Roger heard his own voice echo out of the darkness and knew that his friend could not see him.

"Roger?" Mark whirled around blindly.

Roger stumbled out of the couch and went to embrace the other man, pulling the filmmaker tight against his chest. "I'm sorry," Roger wept. "I'm sorry for everything."

Mark wrapped his arms around Roger's back.

Roger realized that he understood. Without Roger ever having said a word, Mark understood.


	6. Chapter 6: Cutting Room Floor of Memory

Chapter 6

"The Cutting-Room Floor of Memory"

Mark

Four days had passed since Mark had walked back through the door, bruise inflamed, to find himself in the arms of a repentant Roger. In that moment, Mark had known what would happen: he _would _go to Washington D.C. and become a filmmaker. All his dreams would come true. More importantly, his friends would have a chance at a few more years. Everything would be ok.

For now, everything would be ok.

"December 11th, 2:17 p.m. Just got my plane ticket in the mail! Roger's waiting for me in the bedroom, where we're going to clear out stuff to pack. It's sure to be an emotional bonding experience, full of memory and brotherly—"

"_MARK! How the hell do you have so much CRAP when we have no MONEY?!?!" _

"…love."

Mark couldn't suppress a smile as he walked in on Roger. The songwriter sat on the floor amid a hapless clutter of worn-out clothes, ratty shoes, unidentified junk, sheets of music, old joke gifts, and Mark's old camera equipment.

"Be careful with the film!" cried Mark, laying his camera on the bedside table. Roger turned to the haphazard pile of film reels, spilling out of the box that had been stashed in a corner to his right. As Mark entered the room—almost tripping over things about four times—and shuffled enough junk aside to sit beside Roger, the two of them began to shift through the stack.

"Sorry," mumbled Roger. "Didn't mean to knock it over."

"It's cool," Mark replied distractedly, his hand sliding over the label on one of the film reels.

It read _Roger Davis. _

Mark smiled. "Hey Roger…what do you say we leave sifting through the crap-hoard for another day and watch some of this stuff?"

Roger blanched. "Mark. I love you man, but this scripted stuff was shit—_especially _when you forced me to act in them!"

"Hey! It wasn't _all _bad…"

Roger raised an eyebrow.

Mark grinned, finally conceding with a laugh. "All right, so maybe it was. But I've got some other stuff without scripts, not just the documentary." He held the film fondly, remembering beautiful moments and longing to also remember the sweet little times he'd forgotten. "Besides, everyone else is gonna be here tomorrow, and with any luck we can shove the junk on them."

Roger laughed outright. When he stood, the miscellaneous piles around him fell inward to close the gap. Getting out the door involved a lot of tripping and cursing on both their parts, but eventually they stumbled through the doorframe and descended from the bedroom loft.

The camera projector awaited them in its usual place in the living room. It was lonely, poised before the screen in its obsolete corner. Together—with a lot of effort, considering their combined lack of muscle—the two friends dragged their ragged old couch to the projector. Roger turned off the lights as Mark prepared the film.

"I feel like we should have popcorn," said Mark.

Roger jumped over the back of the couch and lay down across the cushions. "You're joking, right?"

"No, really. Or Captain Crunch. Actually, anything that crunches."

Mark rolled his eyes as Roger laughed his distinctive mark's-a-dork giggle. "Popcorn doesn't crunch," said the songwriter.

"It makes a satisfying crumbling sound, thought."

"Have I ever told you that you're the biggest nerd I know?"

"At least twice a day, Roger."

They fell silent as the projector's gentle hum filled the room. For a moment, the screen was blank, a field filled with trembling light. The apartment was cast in a series of shadow and luminescence. Then an image appeared; the film had never been officially cut, so there was no introductory screen.

It was a dark, blurred shot of something resembling a face.

"_Close on—what's your name?" _

"_Roger Davis." _

"_Mark Cohen. Close in on Roger Davis, the drunk I tripped over in an alley…HOLY SHIT MAN!" _

The exclamation drew a bout of laughter from the two seated figures. It coincided with the image suddenly illuminating in the night vision filter of the camera, revealing a pale face marred by blood.

"Why didn't you tell me I looked that bad?" Roger asked, shaking his head disbelievingly at the screen.

"What? That was one of your better days, in my opinion. Didn't want it to go to your head."

"_I'm not drunk. I just nearly got killed by a guy who was supposed to be watching my back." _

As the film cut to the next shot, Mark and Roger fell silent. They wouldn't speak for the rest of the film—except for the occasional laugh or insult. Instead, they were both lost in the memories of their first few days living together.

After all, it was in those days that their friendship had formed.

* * *

_Mark's face now filled the screen. _

"_Mark Cohen here. I've decided to call this film the Roger Davis files. Over the next few days, we'll be learning everything about this mysterious, beat-up rocker! Let's see how thrilled he is by the news." _

_The camera turned around to reveal the bedroom, which had been crowded by three small beds back before Roger came. It proceeded to close in on Roger, still looking pallid and disheveled, lying helplessly in the middle bed. _

_Roger looked up, apparently realizing the lens being shoved at his face. "Do you carry that damn thing around _all_ the time?" _

_Pan left. Close on an old guitar case. _

"_Do you carry _that _damn thing around all the time?" _

_When Roger only groaned in response, Mark's voice continued. The filmmaker had focused on Roger again._

"_Got anything to say to the folks at home, Roger?" _

_Roger responded by limply raising a solitary finger. "Yeah. Fuck you all." _

Laughter echoed from reality.

* * *

"_A week has passed, and our own infamous Roger Davis is back on his feet!" _

_The shot showed Roger sitting at the couch, plucking quietly at the fender guitar that would soon be laid to the side as his addiction worsened._

"_Tell us about yourself, Roger." _

_The musician looked up, striking a few dissonant chords to express his annoyance. "I'm a musician. I want to make it big someday. If I write one great song, just one, I'll be happy—my dream will come true." _

"_What do you love, Roger?" _

"_My music. My healing ribs. Women, especially that red-haired girl who used to come and hear me at the bar. Dreams. Having time to myself, time to relax and think and sort stuff out. Oh, and alcohol." _

"_Anything you hate?" _

_Roger offered a grin. This one was sincere. "Yeah. Filmmakers."

* * *

_

_The camera shot up to Roger's eye-level, blurring the streets of New York and the Thompson Park in the background. _

"_All right, folks. That's New York you see back there. And what's this? Roger Davis, out in the open again! I have a question for you, Roger." _

"_Do you ever _not_ have a question for me?" _

"_New York City. How long have you been here? What do you think of it?" _

_The duo stopped walking, and the camera image sat still. "Mark," said the projection of Roger. "Do you ever talk about you?" _

"_Nah. It's hard to hold a camera in your face and walk forward at the same time. Some of us weren't born with coordination." _

_A devilish smile overtook Roger's face. "Well, we'll just have to fix that. Give me the camera!" _

"_No!" _

"_Give it to me!" _

"_No, you'll break it!" _

"_We're going to film Mark!" _

_The next few shots were hazy images of running feet and flashing concrete. Then, the picture fell still and came up on Mark's face. It trembled slightly in the less-experienced hands, and Mark's face came out in shadow. _

"_So tell us, Mark. What are you going to do today?" _

_Mark gave the camera a flat look. "Hmm. Today. What am I going to do today? Oh, that's right. I'm going to kill someone whose name rhymes with Schmoger. Way to shoot against the sun, genius." _

_Instead of refocusing on the other side, Roger zoomed in on Mark's darkened face. "Close on Mark's twitching mouth. He's going to smile. I give it three seconds before he bursts out laughing and makes a scene. That's right—Mark Cohen is incapable of getting mad at me!"_

"_Shut up!" _

_Approximately two seconds after Mark's hand closed over the lens, the filmmaker burst out laughing and his hand fell away.

* * *

_

_A quiet shot. _

_Layers of moonlight crossed over shadow—New York at night. The shot was downward, aimed at the pavement far below the apartment window. Two figures, small against the backdrop of the world, walked hand in hand. One had flaming red hair, a shock of color that gleamed as fragments of light passed over it, only to fall across the glinting black of a leather jacket. _

_Mark's voice was soft when he spoke. _

"_May 17__th__, 11:34 p.m. Roger finally learned the name of the girl from the bar—April. They've been dating for about a month and a half now. Dating…and shooting up together." _

_The camera continued to follow the distant silhouettes, threads of their laughter drifting upward through the air. _

"_There are syringes in the bathroom. I tried to throw them away; tried to confront him about them. But he freaks. We all tried, but the same thing happens. Benny walked out after Roger punched him last time. Now, Collins has left too. He says he's trying to find help, but he doesn't come home much anymore. Maureen is scared. She's staying with a friend of hers, Joanne, while I try to sort this out._

"_I'm alone here. I don't know how to help him. April hates me; I'm worried that soon, she'll make Roger hate me. _

"_The day I can't reach him anymore is the day he dies."

* * *

_

_The camera faded out—a gentle exit, mournful and hopeless. _

Silence was heavy as the screen went blank for a moment, the hum again overtaking any trace of dialogue. Mark and Roger didn't look at each other; Mark stood, avoiding his friend as he went to shut off the projector.

"Didn't know it would end on that note," said Mark, reaching for the power and the film reel. "Sorry."

"Wait."

Mark looked back. Tears brimmed in Roger's eyes.

"I think there's one scene left, Mark."

* * *

_The camera trembled slightly in the less-experienced hands—again. _

_The image jumped around for a minute as the camera was situated on the bedside table, tilted upward slightly to catch the image of Roger at an awkward angle. The songwriter sat at the edge of the bed. He was filming himself. _

_His eyes were brimmed with darkness. His face was gaunt, even skeletal; it has lost the healthy, handsome glow that could brighten a room. Tears had streamed down his face, trailing stains along the pallor of his skin. _

"_Um…" _

_A hoarse voice, thick with sorrow. _

"_Mark. This is for you, Mark. You just walked out the door again. Sometimes, I don't know if you're going to walk out and not come back, like the rest of them did. I've really fucked up, haven't I? I've driven them all away. _

"_I know you'll come back this time because you forgot your camera. I don't know if you'll ever watch this; if you'll want to be reminded of what I did. I just…I don't know. I'm so scared, Mark." _

_The tears were coming freely now, choking Roger's voice. _

"_I'm just so sorry, so damn sorry that I fucked up and drove you all away. Especially you, Mark. You stayed here. Somehow, I get the feeling that you'll still stay here. You're just a good guy, a good guy who doesn't deserve a screw-up for a friend._

"_I know I hurt you today, before you left. I'm scared as hell to find out how much. There's blood on the floor…it's yours…god, I hurt you so bad." _

_Roger's haunted eyes had been turned down to the floor. Now, they rose to meet the gaze of the camera once more. _

"_I want to make this better. I'm going to do it this time, Mark—I swear. I'm going to do it for you…for me. Even if I'm cold and sick and think I'm gonna die, I won't go back to the drugs. I'd rather die than see you look at me like that again; like there's no hope left anymore._

"_Please forgive me. If you don't forgive me, how can I forgive myself? How can I forget what I've done to you? _

"_Come back. Come back this last time, and I'll never make you leave again." _

_He looked for a moment like he was going to say something else, but he stayed quiet. He reached for the camera, and everything went dark.

* * *

_

The film was done this time. However, Mark didn't stand up to turn the projector off. He was crying. It felt good to cry—he hadn't cried in so long. The tears were all coming now: for almost losing Roger, for losing Maureen, for losing Angel.

For the fact that he'd someday lose them all.

Mark turned to meet Roger's eyes. They were streaming with tears, just like in the film, but at least they held life; they weren't teetering on the cusp of death, even though it would eventually come to that.

Roger was here for now. For that, Mark was grateful.

The two drew close in one heartfelt embrace. The touch was a connection to reality, to emotion, and they cried harder, tightening their arms until their knuckles were white.

They didn't want to let go; not now, not yet. This one moment was theirs: one embrace for all the love they had known, for all the life they had lost…

For every moment they had shared, and every moment they wouldn't.


	7. Chapter 7: To Endure

Chapter Seven

"To Endure"

Roger

"Mark, is this yours?" Joanne emerged from the other room holding a ratty, black bolero. "I found it under the couch."

Mark turned around, but before he could even see what it was she was holding, Collins had swept down upon Joanne and grabbed the hat. "I've been looking for this for years!" He propped it on his head and nodded coyly in Mark's direction before heading back out to the front room. Mark snorted.

"Oh, look!!" cooed Maureen as she pulled something out from under the bed. It was a radioactively pink teddy bear that Mark would've sworn he'd thrown away. "Oh, honey! I can't believe you kept this!!" She threw herself on him in a very passionate hug, which earned her a scornful look from Joanne.

The teddy bear had been purchased for him for his birthday, which also happened to be his first date with Maureen. So she'd bought it off a street vendor; well, bought wasn't the right word, more like she'd talked him into giving it to her. Mark should've known then that Maureen would be trouble.

"Knock! Knock!"

Someone new was standing in the doorway.

Maureen disentangled herself from Mark and crouched, catlike, staring nastily up at the newcomer. "Well, look who it is."

"Play nice!" Joanne snapped at her lover, flashing a sorrowful smile in Benny's direction.

"What're you doing here?" Mimi leapt up from her seat beside Roger on the bed, appearing even more like hissing cat than Maureen did. "Collins," she called toward the other room. "I thought we told you to keep the door shut, any riffraff can just wander in if you don't!"

"Hey! Truce, okay!" Benny said, holding up his hands. "I've just got something for Mark. I know I'm not welcome here."

Someone should've argued with the statement for courtesy's sake, but some feelings couldn't be hidden just for the sake of Mark's going away.

Apparently, Benny could feel the tension that filled the silence. "Okay, okay, point taken. Here." He rummaged through his coat pocket. When his hand came up empty, he took the coat off and searched more thoroughly, finally producing an envelope that he tossed into Mark's lap. "It's not much, but I figured you'd need it. Good luck and Merry Christmas."

Nobody relaxed again until their former landlord was gone. Even then, Joanne continued to aim a chastising glare at Maureen.

Collins slid in from the front room. "He's not all bad."

"Just because you feel obligated to like him because he paid for Angel's funeral doesn't mean that the rest have to." Mimi snapped. She flounced back down next to Roger, who seemed to have not noticed the entire ordeal.

Mark slipped his finger under the lip of the envelope. Inside was a hundred dollars in twenties. It was more money than he'd seen in one place for months. He tucked the envelope into the pocket of his own jacket.

"So I guess we've gotta divide up all the CD's and stuff, right, Rog?" Mark said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Hmm?" Roger hadn't been paying much attention. "Oh, yeah. Guess so. Now that we're getting divorced and everything." The levity in his voice sounded forced, even to him.

Apparently Mark noticed it too, because he dropped the joke immediately.

Roger bit his lip, hating the silence that followed. When the noise of the others filled his ears, he didn't need his own thoughts to occupy his mind; but now that it was absent, he had no other alternative.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could sit here with a false smile plastered on his face. He didn't want to have to play along with anymore of Mark's jokes, or grin at anymore of Maureen's girlish giggling fits over something she discovered. He couldn't watch anymore of Mark's belongings slip into the suitcase.

"Isn't that my shirt?!" Maureen squeaked, pulling something out of Mark's suitcase, and scattering several other shirts that he had just folded.

"If you remember, it was mine before you stole it from me!" Mark said, taking it back from her.

"That's not true!" Maureen laughed.

Mark smacked her with the pink teddy bear and soon the entire group was involved in a very childish pillow fight. Everyone, that is, except Roger.

He slipped out the front door, closing the others out of his mind with it.

* * *

"It's ice blue. The sky, I mean. You would've liked it. It's much more Santa Fe than New York. In fact, it doesn't even feel like New York at all today. Reality's taken a holiday.

"Why did you have that dream? Santa Fe? I tried it, you know. I hated it. Mark was so right; I was just running out on everything. It was stupid. I'd never felt so alone in my entire life…until now…

"I mean, Mark's right. He's got a life to live. I don't. You're proof of that. None of us have real futures, really any planning to do: Mimi, Collins, me, we're all fucked in the end. It kills us all; kills us all, whether we're alone or not. It doesn't matter. You'd tell me not to begrudge him that. I shouldn't be jealous that he's the one of us to survive.

"Why would I be jealous? He's going to lose us all! He'll be all alone! Mark couldn't take that if he were here. It's better that he gets to walk out now, maybe we'll lose touch. He'll be busy, maybe enough to forget. I'll…fade away…It's better, isn't it?"

A thousand gravestones stretched out across the hill, rising like specters from the dry grass. The cemetery was empty. Christmas was a time for life, not death.

Roger curled his knees to his chest. He hated the sound of his own voice in the emptiness, but hated the sound of the silence even more.

"Here. These are for you." He propped the flowers against the headstone. "Merry Christmas. Collins'll probably drop by with better ones later. He misses you a lot."

Roger had only one more thing left to say. And even though the silent grave of his friend had given him no answers yet, he wasn't sure he wanted to give voice to the words, just in case Angel changed her mind. He picked at the grass, slowly disentangling a mass of knotted threads. One by one the blades slipped away and were tugged from his hand by the breeze, until nothing but the bare earth remained.

Roger could see now, the threads of his life untangling and pulling away. Angel. Mark. Who was next? Mimi? Until all that was left was himself, bare and empty and cold.

"There has to be another answer. I'm sick of all the meaninglessness. We live, we get screwed over, we lose our best friends, and then we die. Is that all there is? I'm sick of trying to love, Angel. I don't think I even know how to anymore."

His fingers were frozen, but he hardly noticed—until his rough hands brushed over one another. But he didn't move. Maybe if he could stay here long enough, he would become numb, numb all the way down to his very heart.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Her breath was warm in his ear as her gloved hands snaked around his neck and down his chest. She was warm from the brisk walk, and her hair smelled of winter as it spilled into his face.

"Oh, Mimi." He whispered as he inhaled softly. "How'd you know?"

"You think you're the only one who comes and rants to Angel when times get tough?" Her soft laugh made him smile.

"I should've known."

"Everyone got worried when we realized you had just vanished." She sank down next to him and leaned her head in against his shoulder.

"Everyone?"

"Mostly Mark."

Roger didn't answer for sometime. Finally he whispered, "He worries too much."

Mimi took his face in her hand and turned his eyes to face her. Too often he found that he could simply get lost in her dark brown eyes. Now, more than ever, he wanted to. To vanish into their mirror-like depths and not have to endure anything more.

"You won't be alone." Her lips were inches from his, barely moving as she spoke. "I love you too, Roger. Don't forget that. "

He cupped her warm face in his hands. "How could I ever?" He kissed her softly. "Thank you, Angel." He whispered into her hair.

Losing Mark didn't mean not loving him. Losing Mark didn't mean giving up on life. Losing Mark simply meant he had to learn how to live, how to love, on his own, and not through another.

He had to learn to endure.


	8. Chapter 8 Connection in an Isolating Age

Chapter 8

Mark

"Connection in an Isolating Age"

The suitcases were neatly lined against the wall, amounting to a grand total of three. Mark had very few possessions he actually used; an entire suitcase had been allotted for his camera equipment and best film reels. His every day possessions, on the other hand, could have fit into one of the remaining suitcases and left room to spare. But Mark just couldn't bring himself to let go of some of the old junk he had…some of the stupid gifts. Even the garish pink teddy bear was there, poking its little head out of the middle suitcase. 

Enough clothes and supplies stayed out to get him through about two weeks; he traveled on the 28th of December. Other than that, it was all packed. 

You could see the clean floor for the first time in years. The mess was gone; it had given way to order. Mark, Maureen, Joanne, and Collins stood back, admiring their work. 

"So?" asked Maureen, rubbing Mark's back. "What do you think?" 

"It's…nice. Clean." 

Collins laughed. "Boy, you'd better have more to say than that after we've worked for four hours." 

Mark grinned. "It's really great, guys. Thanks so much for doing this. It would've taken ages for me and Roger to get everything put away." 

Joanne put her chin on Mark's shoulder, giving him a hug from behind—_and _putting herself between Mark and Maureen. "We just want to see you happy, honey." 

Mark turned to Collins with a pained expression as Maureen and Joanne exchanged jealous glances. Collins just laughed and ruffled Mark's hair playfully. Then he extended his arms to encompass the three of them. 

Pretty soon, they had all turned inward, silently sharing in the embrace. 

The sound of the door opening and a passing rush of cold air hailed the return of Roger and Mimi. The group hug broke up as the couple entered, hand in hand. 

When Mimi saw her friends together, she broke away from Roger, inserting herself between Collins and Joanne. "You had a group hug without us?" she asked, attempting to sound hurt despite the radiant smile on her face. 

Roger walked over slowly. Collins reached his arm over the songwriter's shoulders, drawing Roger in between himself and Mark. The touch of the cold lingered on Roger's jacket and skin, carrying the stain of winter into the warmth of their unity. 

Mark smiled and draped an arm over his best friend's shoulders. The two shared a glance, full of hope despite its sadness. 

Again falling into silence, the friends drew close again, surrendering to the unconditional bond that enveloped them. 

The door opened a second time. 

They once again broke apart; this time, however, it was Benny who stood awkwardly at the door, looking absolutely frozen. 

"I, uh…forgot my coat…" said the former landlord. "I tried to get by without it so that I wouldn't bother you again, but that didn't work so well." 

Mark could feel the tension rising. Mimi's eyes hardened, as did Maureen's; in fact, only Collins's expression housed any sympathy. 

_I don't want this, _thought Mark, remembering the money Benny had given him. _Not before I leave. _

Mark detached himself from Maureen and Roger. He walked over to where Benny was wrapping a coat around his shivering shoulders. The filmmaker quietly drew his old friend and roommate into an embrace. At first, Benny seemed surprised and hesitant; then, he relaxed into the brotherly touch. 

"Thank you," Mark said into Benny's ear. 

When they parted, Benny had a smile on his face. They turned to face the group. 

"Who wants lunch?" asked Mark, keeping an arm around Benny to make it clear that _everyone _was invited. 

The rest looked exited for a moment; then their faces fell as their hands drifted to the empty wallets in their pockets. 

Mark sighed. "On me," he added, pulling out Benny's money. 

The excitement returned, and all of them—including Benny—headed out to the Life Café. 

"Last time you'll have to deal with me," said Mark. "And I can even pay this time!" 

The doorman hated Mark with every fiber of his being; Mark could tell. Somehow, the lack of a warm welcomed brought a smile to the filmmaker's face, making this place all the more endearing. 

The man sighed, looking over the familiar party. "So I can't kick you out this time?" 

"Not today," replied Mark, grinning. 

As they sat down, the group fell into quiet conversation. Mark detached himself for a moment, withdrawing into his comfortable seclusion as his hands brought his camera up in front of his eyes. He filmed everything, sometimes sitting down, sometimes standing up and wandering. He filmed the winter sunrays falling across empty tables as they drifted in through the musty glass of the window. He filmed the faces of his friends, panning from smile to smile in a continuous circle. At that moment, it didn't matter if some of their joy was forced; if they were endearing Benny just for Mark's sake. 

All Mark knew was that he would never forget this moment. 

"My last meal in the Life Café," he said, hoping his voice could be heard over conversation and laughter. 

"There's the table where Benny sat with business partners and investors while we put on our little show. It worked—we scared them away. I bet we could scare anyone away, and we would enjoy every minute of it. 

"There's the menu board where Collins wrote FIGHT AIDS; there's the door that Roger and Mimi walked through right before kissing for the first time. There's the table I danced across. I made an ass of myself, but I had a damn good time!" 

Mark hesitated. He lowered the camera for a moment as he noticed that his friends had been watching him. Smiling, he started to film again, focusing on their faces. 

"I'll miss this place," he said. 

That was it—Mark's conclusion. He put the camera down and joined his friends in easy banter, wishing that some things were easier to leave behind. 


	9. Chapter 9: Christmas Bells

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"Christmas Bells"

Roger

To Roger, Christmas had always been too complex a sensation to be captivated by a single sense. Perhaps this was why he had never found Christmas as fulfilling as he used to. Something was always missing: Mimi, April, money, love, happiness, sobriety. The thing he hated about Christmas, was remembering that there was a time when he didn't doubt that he would make it through to next year. Before the AIDS diagnosis it had just been a given that he would see Christmas again. Since then, his world had been getting smaller, shrinking like the t-cell counts.

Today, everything stood still. He inhaled and exhaled without thinking about it and basked in his tranquility.

Roger watched from the couch as Mimi flitted around the Christmas tree, hanging small, gaudy balls from its angular branches. Collins easily stepped around her, placing a golden angel on top to crown his prize.

It had been very early that morning when Collins had slipped out of the loft carrying only a hack saw. Roger had woken to the sound of him attempting to tiptoe across the room, but failing miserably for his size. He was too tired to really care what the man was doing. Two hours later, Collins had returned dragging behind him a large fir. His cheeks were flushed from the cold but he proudly declared that their Christmas tree had come straight from Central Park. It's out of shape branches were the result of him dragging it through the New York streets and then up several flights of stairs.

To be quite frank, Roger thought, the tree was hideous. It looked like some sort of malformed creature which had raced through the Christmas aisle at WalMart. But, it was perfect for the loft. Somehow this substandard Christmas tree fit. It had snuggled into the corner like a stray puppy that was too cute to turn back out into the cold.

Joanne had done wonders with white gauze and now the neon lights that drifted through the window were meshed into a soft haze that spattered against the floor. And their electric lights had been ditched in preference of two dozen candles and the sparkle of the fire.

Not only did it look like Christmas in the loft, but it sounded like Christmas. He had plaintively strummed the opening to _Silent Night_ on his guitar before deciding that the music was not really necessary. Mimi hummed _Feliz Navidad _as she worked, always singing at the "Feliz Navidad" part before returning to humming. Collins was pouring cognac into six glasses, chuckling to himself about how he'd managed to get a hold of such fine liquor. In the kitchen, Mark was trying to save Maureen—who had insisted upon cooking the entire Christmas feast all by herself—from disaster.

"Maureen! You have to cook potatoes before you mash them!"

"Maureen! Who puts gravy on ham!?"

"You're Jewish! Jews don't eat ham! What would you know?"

Joanne laughed from her seat on the floor where she was tying bows around each of the presents. When she had finished, she tossed the last present, a small box wrapped in emerald paper, onto the small pile and then proceeded to stack copious amounts of wood onto the fire so that it would last the rest of the night.

The sweet smoke drifted across the room, making Roger almost light-headed. Of course he might've felt faint from the smell of ham wafting in from the kitchen, he hadn't eaten all day seeing as their kitchen had been dominated by Maureen since just after dawn and any attempt on his part to enter had been met with extreme opposition.

"Cognac." Collins handed him a chipped tumbler and then swept past him to bring one into Mark.

The acrid smell of the liquor filled his nose only for a moment before Mimi swept over and took the glass from his hand. He considered protesting but her soft hair was cascading over his face and her lips were against his before he could. Her hair smelled like jasmine.

"Hey." He whispered when she stopped kissing him.

"Hey."

"What was that for?"

She shrugged, "it's Christmas," then handed him back his drink.

He gripped one of her hands tightly as she tried to walk away and pulled her down into his lap and kissed her again.

"What was that for?" She laughed.

Everything was smiles and joviality. Mark and Maureen were somehow avoiding the awkwardness that was the normal stuff of their encounters. Roger too had put aside all feelings of hurt and confusion he harbored about Mark's impending departure.

Roger leaned back against the couch and drained the rest of the cognac.

He was happy.

It actually truly felt like Christmas.

* * *

"Oh pookie thank you!" Maureen crooned as she unwrapped Joanne's gift to her; a new leather jacket.

The two shared a soft kiss.

"That it?" Collins asked, placing his new hat—a gift from Roger—crookedly on his head.

"Almost." Roger replied. "Two more things, courtesy of me." He pulled out two presents from underneath the couch.

"That's why you wouldn't let me clean down there!" Mark snapped to attention where he had been half drowsing on the couch.

"Astute." He handed the first present over to Mark, and the smaller of the two to Mimi. "Ladies first." He said, grabbing Mark's hand as he reached for the ribbon.

Mark stuck out his lip in a pout.

Mimi smiled and opened her gift.

"Oh Roger!" She threw himself at him; the others confusion shown on their faces as she had attacked him before they had had the chance to see what the small package held.

"What?" Maureen reached into Mimi's lap and grabbed the box.

Inside were two small diamond stud earrings. They were real.

"How in heavens did you afford them?!" Mimi screeched taking the earrings back from Maureen. "You shouldn't have spent so much! You don't have that kind of money! Oh Roger! They're beautiful, but you have to take them back! It's too much."

"Nothing's too much for you."

Collins made gagging noises.

Mimi ignored him. "How in heavens did you afford them?"

Roger shrugged. "I've been paying them off since Valentine's day. I pick up twenty here and twenty there." "You haven't been skimping on your AZT!" She snapped the box closed. Roger felt the angry glares of the others.

"No. I picked up work here and there."

Mark's eyebrows knit into a sharp furrow. "When?"

"When you were busy running off to interviews."

The joviality of the moment was lost, swallowed up by the silence that followed his comment.

"Go ahead Mark, open it."

Mark looked confused for a moment before remembering the gift still sitting in his lap.

Slowly, he slid his finger under the flaps of paper and pulled them away, trying to make as little noise with the paper as he could.

It was a small leather-bound book with uneven cream pages. He flipped to the first page. Written in Roger's slanted hand were the words: _So you will always remember._

He gently turned the page.

New York City had been snipped out of a newspaper and pasted in the center; underneath, Roger had printed "center of the universe". The following pages transported him to all his favorite places in New York: the life café, the spot in Central Park where he often went to think, their building, the ally where he had first met Roger.

The entire book was filled.

The very last page had only one photo on it. It had been taken against a plain brick wall, and from the glossy surface, smiled up the faces of Roger, Angel, Collins, Maureen, and Joanne. Leaning in from the corner was his own face, smiling brightly.

Mark looked up at Roger with tears in his eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

"I hate parties." Mark moaned picking up a wad of discarded wrapping paper.

"You just hate the cleanup." Roger replied, flicking a length of ribbon at him. "For so few presents, we have so much wrapping paper! And of course everyone left without picking up their shit!"

Roger laughed and flopped down on the floor among the empty shells of presents. "This doesn't have to be done tonight. It's two in the morning.

"Mark sat down. "Yeah, besides, you never opened your gift from me."

"I thought you'd just forgotten me!" Roger laughed even though he really had believed that. Mark scoffed and handed him a package.

"Blue's not a Christmas color you know."

"Shut up or I'll take it back."

Roger ripped the paper off.

It was a camera, not the video kind like Mark's, but a simple film camera. It was heavy in his hands as he lifted it to look through it. It was strange being on the other side of the lens.

Did Mark see him like this? Was he too trapped in this small box, incomplete because the scope of the lens wasn't wide enough? Appearing entirely impersonal and simple as every human moment could be captured and frozen forever.

"Thanks." He said finally.

"Do you really like it?" Roger's strange thoughts must've been clear on his face.

"Of course." He answered lowering the camera.

Mark's face as he had seen it through the lens still swam in his vision long after he had taken the camera away from his face. It stayed with him even long after Mark had fallen asleep after flipping through the book that Roger had given him again.

He reached out and touched the cover of the book, slowly removing it from under Mark's hand. He flipped to the last page and looked at the static form of Mark, locked forever in that moment. For an instant, he was tempted to rip the photograph out of the album, but it was clearly Mark's favorite page so he couldn't bring himself to.

He didn't want Mark to be trapped only in his memory, only on the surface of the photos. He ran his finger over the photo.

The man who smiled there wasn't the same man who smiled only a few feet away from him.

He picked up the camera Mark had given him and snapped a picture of the other man as he slept: imprisoning another bit of his soul in photo.

Somewhere far off in the night, Roger thought he heard bells ringing, but he knew it was only another siren.


	10. Chapter 10 Can't Believe This Is Goodbye

Chapter 10

Mark

"I Can't Believe This is Goodbye."

They were sitting on the window ledge at three a.m., December 28th. They looked down at darkness that only rarely stirred with life.

In four hours, they had to be at the airport. They had tried sleeping. It hadn't worked.

"You should really get some sleep," said Roger, his eyes never leaving the cold, quiet city.

"Not tired. I'll sleep on the plane."

"You always said you could never sleep on planes."

"I'll make an exception."

Roger laughed softly. "God, this window," he said, falling into reminiscence. "Remember my birthday that one year, the thing with the cake…and I really, really wanted you—"

"Yeah, yeah, you wanted to be pied in the face, and I tried to and—"

"Missed! How the hell did you MISS?!"

"You moved! You chickened out! I didn't miss!"

"But yeah, it went out the window—"

"And landed on—"

"Oh god, we didn't have heat for a week!"

They both started laughing, a tired, bittersweet sound. It died down into silence.

Mark took in the world with his eyes; the cool moonlight, the pale gleam off rooftops. He was scared, but he was calm, and soon lost in what he could see. The early morning lingered on. Slowly, slowly, dawn would approach.

When Mark looked up again, Roger was asleep against the glass.

* * *

Mark filmed out the cab window. He had chosen the window seat behind the driver, and Mimi was beside him. It was one of the big van cabs; three rows of seats, plus room for luggage. Collins was up in the passenger seat, and Joanne, Maureen, and Roger were crowded in the back.

"I wonder why I've only rarely filmed out a car window before," said Mark. "It's like getting little snapshots of life past a highway."

"I think there's a metaphor in there somewhere," replied Collins.

Mimi laughed. "Somewhere. Somewhere very deep in the tangled mess that is Mark's brain."

Mark elbowed her, only to receive a kick from behind that made his seat jolt.

"Hey! Don't abuse my girlfriend!"

Soon after Roger spoke, however, he sank back into the chair and moaned. "It's too early," he said. "Way too early."

"That's why people sleep," scolded Maureen. "You know, at night. That's when it's dark out."

The noise that Roger responded with was somewhere between a growl, a groan, and a yawn. Collins spent the next five minutes imitating it.

As they neared the airport, the snapshots of life rolled by endlessly, and a single frame of existence was captured within their seclusion.

* * *

"I hate airports," complained Mark. "I really do hate them."

Joanne raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, seeing as you've spent so much time in them."

The monochromatic gleam of the airport walls rose up around and above them, ascending to metallic rafters. Their dark reflections were foreshortened in the spotless tiles of the floor. Windows ran along the walls; moving walkways lined the ground far past the security lines. This was the biggest airport in New York—people were everywhere, making their small cluster seem all the more dwindling and insignificant.

Mark checked in his luggage, letting Joanne handle check-in for him. Soon, his boarding pass was in hand, as was his carry-on. Everything else had disappeared through the rubber flaps at the end of the baggage assembly line.

Turning away from the check-in counter, Mark felt the nervousness and the weight of leaving really sink in. Uneasiness settled into his stomach. Suddenly, he felt tight and sick and uncomfortable, as though everything inside of him was protesting. But he only had a minute to contemplate—a camera flash was in his face, blinding him.

"You blinked," accused Roger, lowering the camera.

"Yeah. You can avoid that by _not _shooting six inches from a person's face."

Roger laughed. "I'll try to remember that."

"All right, guys! Group picture!" shouted Maureen, taking Roger's camera and shoving it into the hands of an innocent passer-by. "Here! Take our picture, sir! Please!"

The man—the clean-cut, three-piece-suit, slick hair, CEO type—fumbled with the camera for a minute. It wasn't as though Maureen had given him any choice. The group assembled; Mark was shoved to the center. Maureen and Joanne knelt beneath him, Mimi and Roger flanked him with their arms around his waist and shoulders respectively, and Collins popped up behind them all.

Mark couldn't help it. As the camera flashed, the tears welled up behind his smile.

* * *

"Thank you!" said Maureen, retrieving the camera as they disbanded.

Mimi looked in Mark's direction with a gorgeous smile filling her face. It soon melted away, however, when she noticed Mark's tears. "Mark?" she said softly. Roger noticed then and kept an arm around his best friend.

"I, um…sorry, I…"

But Mark couldn't stop the tears anymore. They flowed uninhibited as daunting fear and doubt outweighed all traced of excitement. He looked down, trying to hide it, but by this time his body was shaking with sobs. Roger's one-arm comfort became a full, strong embrace, and Mark felt small and weak as he cried in Roger's arms.

Mark broke away slowly and saw his pain mirrored in Roger's eyes. "It's just…I mean, what if…" His voice broke with emotion. "What if I don't see you again?"

That brought everyone to his side. He was enveloped in one hug after another, one reassurance after another. Every touch brought onslaughts of tears on Mark's part and soon from his friends as well.

_I can't believe this family must die. _

No, it wouldn't die—at least not for the people around him. Roger, Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, Collins…they wouldn't fall apart. They would draw closer together and endure.

But for Mark, it was over. It was time to be alone in a place where nobody knew his face.

They all lapsed into teary silence. Mark glanced at the security procession; he watched as people filed through, checking their carry-ons and stepping through the magnetic arches after an eternity of waiting in the seemingly endless line. He would have to start standing there soon.

"I guess this is goodbye, right?" Mark asked.

"Yeah," said Roger quietly. "I guess it is."

Maureen and Joanne gave him his first goodbyes. They went up to Mark and gently, sweetly laid twin kisses on his cheeks. He held them each for a moment; Joanne first, then Maureen. Maureen was in his arms a breath longer, for everything they had been through and shared.

"Bye, baby," she breathed in his ear. "Never forget me, 'k?"

"Never," he whispered in reply.

_Maybe there'll be a girl for me in D.C. A _straight_ girl. _

"Bye, Maureen." He motioned to Joanne. "You two take care of each other."

The two lovers encircled each others' waists with their arms. "We will," said Joanne as she and Maureen shared a loving gaze.

Mark smiled through his tears. For the first time, he realized that he was truly happy for them.

Mimi was next. As he embraced her, Mark remembered her fragility on that night a little over a year ago, remembered the lifeless look in her eyes. He drew her in tighter. He was suddenly frightened of her mortality, of her inevitable, approaching end. Then he had to let go with a soft goodbye. He let go before the barren pain of holding her threatened to overwhelm him.

The second Mimi drifted away, however, Mark was swept up by Collins's crushing arms. "Take care of yourself, boy," said the anarchist, his voice breaking. "Angel will watch over you."

"I know he will," said Mark into the darkness of Collins's chest. "He always has."

_Oh, God. I'm going to lose him too; I'm going to lose Collins. I can't leave…God, I really can't leave…I can't do this… _

Collins was soon gone, and Mark found himself face to face with Roger.

Roger—his best friend in the world, his brother in ways that transcended blood relation, an irreplaceable part of himself.

Roger shifted his feet. "So, um…be careful, man. Take care."

"Yeah. You too. All of you. I'll send money, I'll keep in touch, and—"

Mark's words were cut off as Roger suddenly grabbed him, embracing him fiercely; a touch as deep and powerful as a final goodbye deserved to be. Mark wrapped his arms around his best friend and held on with the same ferocity. They held onto silence as they held onto each other, as though words alone could break a moment and make it end. There was no animosity or regret between them—just love, the pure, sweet love of friendship.

_You'll be ok, Roger. You're my brother and always will be—even when you're gone, even now that I'm leaving. _

_Even when you're gone…_

It lasted a few more moments. Mark took advantage of those moments and let all his senses register the stark reality of their connection. His world became the feel of skin and clothes and hair and tears, the smell of leather, the sound of shuddering breaths.

Then it was over. They broke apart with tears trailing down their faces; they separated and left behind a foundation of love. Roger shrank back into their crowd of friends and Mark was left alone, facing them all.

He stood there awkwardly for a minute. Was this where he gave a long farewell speech? Where he told them all how much he loved them? Where he said a single, climatic "goodbye" and walked away, becoming a distant part of their lives?

_Jeez, I really am a filmmaker. I live for clichés. _

"Um…"

They stared expectantly. Mark filled the awkwardness by taking a passing glance at his watch, just to have something to do. The digital display read 8:17 a.m.

"Shit! I'm late!"

Their laughter echoed with him as he turned and left for good.


	11. Chapter 11: Epilogue

**A/N: First off, we would like to appologize for the delay in posting on this story--life got a little hectic this time of year and we're thankful that it's all over. Postings should hopefully be more frequent in the future.**

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Epilogue

Roger

_I toss down the plastic bag on the counter. Inside, the pill bottles click together and their contents rattle jeeringly at me. I consider making up the weeks I've gone without meds right now._

_Why bother?_

_I feel fine. Maybe a little weak, maybe a little apathetic, but fine. Maybe the walk to the drug store is the first time I've left the loft this month. I haven't played guitar in ages and I can feel the atrophy in my fingers. Maybe I've pushed everyone away, fearing that they would see the face that gazes back at me from the mirror. _

_Beyond that, there's a constant ache at the back of my skull. It's not a physical ache, it's his absence. It began the moment he turned away for the last time. Perhaps it has grown worse over the last two months, but I've become too accustomed to the pain to compare it to memory._

_But I'm fine. Fucking fine._

_I check the voice mail, already knowing that there'll be no opiate for my pain. But as numb as I have become, I still have hope. I cling to this prayer of redemption._

_I sink down on the couch, feeling that thing I may only define as my depression. It's sick and cold, like my own hands after I awake from nightmares. I have no emotion but emptiness that consumes me and drags from me all desire but that for defeat._

_I have to find something to distract myself from the pain._

_I wonder if Collins will call soon. He'll want to know I got the meds. Got them on money I borrowed from him. It's money Collins needs and had he not found me in a moment of weakness, I never would've taken the money. I dread the guilt I'll have to swallow with each pill._

_When the money ran out, I went off the AZT, along with everything else I'd been on. So, logically, my T-cell count came back low. And being the heartless bastards that they are, my insurance company dropped me on the basis that I had "voluntarily" stopped taking my prescriptions; on the basis that I was "self-destructive" and a "risk". I'm not quite sure why they covered me—an ex-drug addict—in the first place. Now I pay full price on medication I can't afford even on just the co-pay._

_Fucking brilliant._

_I wonder if he knows what the end of the money meant. His fat D.C. checks had kept me alive while I tried to find gigs. They've stopped coming though._

_He called at least twice a week, even in those early days when we had nothing to say to each other, when the pain was still to strong to avoid. He didn't have a home phone and instead called from payphones at random hours of the day._

"_Dammit." I press my cheek into the cool surface of the couch and try not to think of the pills or the money or the reason those things are so painful._

_I have to think of something else. Something simple, something that can't be tied to him._

_I'm hungry._

_There isn't food in the house…because there was no money…because…_

"_Fuck! Try again!" The sound of my own voice in the silence startles me._

_I've become accustomed to hearing no voices, except through the telephone. I know that he would never put up with this. He would call this childish sulking and would drag me outside into the sun, and make me stay there until the pallor of the electric lights had gone from my cheeks._

_I press my face into the cushions. How nice, how easy it would be to simply stop breathing._

_I wish I could stop remembering that last words we spoke to each other. I want that more than I want to stop remembering him all together._

"_Don't be stupid, Roger!"_

"_I don't need your charity anymore! That's all your money is: pity!"_

"_It's your arrogance, your ego! It gets in the way of your own need!"_

"_Mark, this is called projection! You think everyone needs you! If that's not ego, what is? We've done fucking wonderfully since you walked out on us!"_

"_Walked out?! I'm not your suicidal girlfriend or your drunk father! I'm not everyone else in your damn life! I did this to help you!"_

"_To help me?!"_

"_Yes!"_

"_Well, I don't need your help. Go to hell, Mark. Go to hell!"_

_Why am I surprised he hasn't called me? Because his conscience won't let him. He'd be too worried. He would have to call someone to make sure dear Roger wasn't a "risk to himself."_

_But he hasn't called anyone. He has seemingly vanished into the black hole called Washington D.C. and escaped from all the things that kept him grounded in New York City._

_Maybe he wanted out, but I'm not ready to let him go that quickly. I'm not willing to believe that the last words I will ever say to the man who saved my life on numerous occasions are "go to hell"._

_I can hear the breath rattling in my chest. It's a strange feeling, like I'm pulling water into my lungs instead of air. Things are going black around me and my hands have gone numb. _

_Even my thoughts have slowed and the thought that this is death that has touched me doesn't come until long after the sensation has passed. _

_But this _is_ death. I _am _dying. And that realization terrifies me._

Far away, someone screamed in the darkness.

Roger wasn't the only one who was dying.


End file.
